“Hey—which room do you want?”
Blair made a face. Shrugged. Grabbed the earpiece from Jenna and rammed it back into place.
Reminding herself that this was no time to lose her patience, Jenna left Blair to her sulk and cranked open the next window, finally letting in some air. Hallelujah. Thus fortified, she returned to her niece and repeated the unplugging procedure. “Well, why don’t you go look at them and decide?”
That got a disgusted look. “I don’t care, okay? Geez, Jenna—there isn’t even a pool or anything. And it smells funny in here.”
“It’s just a little musty because it’s been closed up,” Jenna said, although she had to admit the aroma was doing nothing for a tummy already on the fritz from nervousness, exhaustion and heat. “It’ll clear out now that the windows are open.” And after I get my hands on some Lysol. “And maybe we can swim in the lake.”
Horror streaked across her niece’s features. “There’s probably, like, fish and…things in there! And seaweed! Gross!”
Jenna pointed out it would be tricky for seaweed to grow in a freshwater pond. Especially in the middle of the continent. Then, commandeering the last shreds of her quickly fading energy, she swatted her niece on the sole of her sneaker. “Come on—I need you to help me lug in the cooler. Then we can see about doing something for dinner. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Although, to be truthful, the last thing Jenna wanted to think about right now was food. No, actually, the last thing she wanted to think about was Hank Logan. Or any of the reasons why they were there to begin with. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep for about a week and forget about moody nieces, revelations in diaries, P.I. reports and newspaper clippings and sexy, rumpled, grumpy men with bedroom voices who wigged out her hormones.
Speaking of grumpy…Blair actually deigned to haul her tush off the sofa and out to the car, dumping a miffed Meringue onto the floor in the process.
Jenna’s spirits lifted, just a little. Miffed cats she could handle.
Springing earth-shattering news on people was something else again.
“Jenna! Jenna—wake up!”
Fighting her way out of a dream, Jenna pried open one eye and looked—if you could call it that—at Blair. “Wha—?”
“The toilet’s overflowing!”
At this point, Jenna experienced one of Life’s Little Truisms, which is that one’s urge to pee is in direct proportion to the discovery that there’s no toilet. Especially when one last went—Jenna finally screwed up enough oomph to peer at her travel clock—ten hours ago.
“Jenna! It’s like really coming out fast, all over the bathroom!”
Three seconds later found Jenna wading through the inch of surprisingly frigid water rapidly threatening the living room. Cursing and muttering, she prayed there was a turn-off valve under the toilet, both because she didn’t relish the idea of swamp living and because the gushing water was doing nothing for her full bladder.
There was. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t budge. Cursing and muttering more loudly, especially at the dumb cat who got right smack in her path, Jenna sloshed out of the bathroom and across the living room to the kitchen, where the valve under the kitchen sink did work. Which stopped the flooding—which was the good news—but also shut off the water for the entire cabin. Which was the bad.
She swore again, a meatier word this time, then stomped back to the bathroom, grabbed the spare roll of toilet paper off the commode, said, “I’ll be right back” and hotfooted it outside, still in her shortie pj’s. When she returned a few minutes later, Blair was standing on the porch, her expression duly horror-stricken.
“You went in public?”
“Yes, Blair,” Jenna said, zipping past her and on into her room, where she rummaged in her still-packed bags, grabbing the first things that came to hand. Okay, she was now officially in a bad mood. Dammit—she had planned to sleep in. She had planned on a bracing run, then a leisurely shower. She had not planned on dealing with Hank Logan before coffee. Or a shower. “I went all the way back to the road and squatted right where anybody coming or going could see me. For heaven’s sake—” she quickly hauled on shorts and a white T-shirt “—it was just me and about five million startled birds.”
She turned to face her niece, whose expression had changed from horrified to disgusted. Jenna grabbed her Redskins ball cap from the nightstand and crammed her hair up into it, feeling about as attractive as grout gunk. “I’m going to report this. You might as well get dressed while I’m gone, since I guess we’re having breakfast in town. TP’s on the coffee table if you need it.”
“This was a really stupid idea, Jenna.”
Jenna looked up and saw the tears cresting on her niece’s lower lids. On a sigh, she closed the gap between them, pulling the girl into her arms.
“I’m sorry things started out so badly,” she whispered into her niece’s soft, slippery hair. “But it’ll get better. I promise.”
Then she left before the hysterical laughter escaped.
Even after more than two years, Hank still occasionally had mornings where he’d jerk awake in a sweat, gasping for air as though somebody’d dumped a load of wet cement on his chest.
Shutting his eyes against the almost painful pounding of his heart, he rolled himself up to sit on the edge of his bed, fumbling for his cigarettes. His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to get the damn lighter working. He’d actually quit for several months a year or so ago, but between the memories during the day and the night terrors…well, the smoking seemed the lesser of the evils, frankly.
He took his first drag of the morning and waited for his heart rate to settle down. Ryan, his pain-in-the-ass brother, who happened also to be Haven’s sole M.D., ragged on Hank whenever he saw him about the smoking. Which was one reason Hank tended to stay out of Ryan’s way. Besides—damn, how long was it gonna take for the nicotine to kick in, already?—it wasn’t like he had any real reason to prolong his life….
Aw, hell. Who was banging the crap out of the office bell this early?
He swore, took a last pull on the cigarette and stamped it out, then yanked on the pair of jeans he’d left by the bed the night before. Didn’t bother with underwear. The way he figured it, if this was who he figured it was at—what the hell time was it, anyway?—seven-fifteen in the morning, she should be grateful he bothered getting dressed at all.
For some reason, the image of Jenna Stanton’s expression at the sight of him in the altogether brought a glimmer of sunshine to what was undoubtedly fixing to be a rotten day.
“You can lay off the bell now,” he said, jerking open the door between his apartment and the front office. Predictably enough, she jumped back, her eyes huge underneath the brim of her ball cap, her breasts straining against the fabric of her tucked-in T-shirt like a pair of little—very little—kids’ faces pressed against a candy shop window.
“Mr. Logan! What if this had been Blair?” She flapped her hands at him; he bet she’d be fit to be tied if she realized how red her cheeks were. “Please—g-go back and finish getting dressed. I’m not in that much of a hurry.”
Hank’s accession to her demands extended as far as snapping his jeans’